


alone i set out on this road

by nycthemeron



Category: Twosetviolin
Genre: Angst, Brett Yang Needs A Hug, Car Accidents, Death, Depression, Disapproving Family, Emotional Hurt, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Implied Depresion, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Nature, Night, Real Life, Sad Brett, Sad Ending, Sleep, Stars, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Wakes & Funerals, We Die Like Men, i literally cannot write one fic without talking about nature or the stars so here we are, i love being depressed, im sleep deprived and this hasnt been edited, im so sorry, implied as always, implied tho, its very poetic ngl, nature is personalized a lot, not like its canon but this shit happens man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-16 00:47:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21499093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nycthemeron/pseuds/nycthemeron
Summary: so let his chest drain of dozing fervor, strip him of life and gentle breath. let him heave a final gasp, and exhale all his pain.
Relationships: Eddy Chen/Brett Yang
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26





	alone i set out on this road

**Author's Note:**

> suicide is never an answer

he sits alone on the city roadside, feels oddly alone in a place like this. the puddles of reflected streetlamp light hurt his eyes, sparkling and shuddering in a way that is far more beautiful in this instance than it normally is. the night is still, and through the mist he watches as cars slowly, sparingly make their ways past him. 

if he hears the herald of angels in the whiz of automobiles, if he hears holy horns in passing traffic, if he sees the commonly talked about white light in the headlights that blind him with pulsing spots in his vision--there is nothing about it. nothing to worry about. 

he can barely see them from his spotlit seat in the mist beneath the streetlamp, but if he looks up, he can see the blinking of stars. if he squints hard enough he can see the family of them in the sky, and if he listens maybe he can hear them speak. 

he wonders if the heavens are ever so overwhelmed by their own glory. he wonders if they cry watching what takes place below them. maybe that is why it rains. maybe that is why the weather forecast said it would rain any time now. he wonders if their shining is a chance to show us happiness and truth, and he thinks how funny it is that we sleep at such a beautiful time. how ironic.

even now, with his feet sat cold on the asphalt, watching the stars in all their beauty, he can feel how his heart aches for a life he never has really had the chance to live. there remains no glowing, fading ember of hope, but with that he can say there are not any regrets he has. how can you have regrets about a life that was never really yours in the first place, right? 

if there is anything he can he craves with what limited grasp he has left, he wishes for peace--but more than that, he wishes for freedom. however, he does not see them as mutually exclusive. in this way he has devised, he can be at peace, and he can be free. he simply wishes, in this manner, to fall asleep, and in this manner, to forget.

if there was a way to achieve such a feat without this eternally cold sleep, he would do it in a heartbeat. but as it stands, here, on the city roadside, in the mist beneath a streetlamp, feet on the cold asphalt, he only has one choice. 

so let his chest drain of dozing fervor, strip him of life and gentle breath. let him heave a final gasp, and exhale all his pain.

let the stars ready themselves beside a saddened silver mother to sing of love and happiness, welcomed into her loving arms, and praised by the radiating sun for being strong for so long. let the trees soon below him descend upon his body, let them grow and thrive and rustle above.

he sets his glasses on the curb and stands. with a final goodbye to a world that never treated him well, he steps into the mist of heralding angels, horns, and white light. 

not the most ideal way to go, with screeching tires and screams in the aftermath, with frantic voices and phone calls, with crying family and friends around a casket. it is not ideal, but neither was he.

he sleeps, cold and peaceful, in the arms of the moon and warm light of the sun, sung a lullaby of death by the stars. he rests at last.

**Author's Note:**

> sleep well my friends, let your lungs breathe steady.
> 
> twitter: @nycthemerontsv


End file.
